Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Anything to keep lucidity at bay.
Hours stretch into days as I drift in and out of drug-induced semi-consciousness. I’d prefer to be knocked out completely, but sleep is when the nightmares come, so sleeping pills are a no-go. Hazily, I wonder if I’m breaking my promise to Alexei by taking all this medication. For five months, I kept my end of the bargain. After my disastrous eighteenth birthday, I didn’t smoke a single joint, nor take any drugs that weren’t prescribed to me. Then again, what I’m taking now is prescribed to me.
These pills are legally mine, and I need them.
I need them because the alternative is facing reality, and I can’t bear to do that.
Alexei came by again, Lyudmila told me this morning. Or maybe it was sometime yesterday—I can no longer tell what day it is. Either way, my brothers refused to let him in. He’s apparently been demanding to see me since the morning after everything went down, but they’ve managed to keep him away.
My head throbs at the thought of it all—at the thought of him—even though there’s no longer any reason to be afraid. My father’s death has rendered the betrothal contract null and void; Konstantin told me that a few days ago. Nikolai heads up the family business now, and he has no interest in being allied with the Leonovs. There’s no reason for me to see Alexei ever again, and I’m glad. I think if the engagement were still on the table, I’d take that entire bottle of pills and be done with it.
Now, more than ever, I can’t imagine marrying a man like my father. Not even if some tiny, pathetic part of me wishes I could feel Alexei’s arms around me one more time, to experience the heat that burns between us instead of the icy numbness that engulfs me when I think about that night… about anything, really.
It’s best that I don’t think at all.
I reach for the pills and swallow two more without bothering with water.
The pills run out eventually. Of course they do. And my brothers, sadists that they are, refuse to get me more until I agree to go to therapy. Apparently, now that several weeks have passed, my injuries have healed enough for me not to require constant pain medication—or at least that’s what the doctor told them. Fucking bastard. What does he know?
Either way, I have no choice.
For the first time in weeks, I dress, put on makeup, and make my way downstairs, where the car awaits. I feel weak and nauseated, my legs shaking and my head pounding with each step I take. By the time I get into the car with the usual posse of bodyguards, I’m sweating and my stomach is cramping with anxiety.
I manage to compose myself a bit during the ride, but I’m still a mess when I enter the office of Yekaterina Belkova, the therapist. She turns out to be a thin, petite woman with warm brown eyes and an inviting smile. To my embarrassment, half an hour into our session, I break down crying, even though we’ve only spoken about the early years of my childhood, back when my parents’ marriage was just marginally terrible.
She waits considerately until I’ve pulled myself together, and then we talk some more. Instead of the usual hour, my brothers have booked me unlimited time with her today, and as we go on, I find myself glad about that. I haven’t spoken to any of my friends since that night. I can’t, not when they have no clue what truly happened. Nor can I really open up to my brothers. We’re not that close, emotionally speaking, and I’m certain they’re suffering from trauma also, in their own way. The last thing I want is to add to their burden.
That’s why it’s such a relief to talk to this sympathetic, nonjudgmental woman, even though I’d still rather have the pills. She doesn’t push, doesn’t probe, just asks thoughtful questions and listens. We meander from topic to topic, and somehow, I end up telling her about Alexei and the betrothal that has given me so much anxiety over the past three and a half years—yet another thing I’ve never told my friends about, nor discussed in any depth with my family.
My brothers knew I was against the betrothal, but they never understood how much Alexei terrified me and why. But Belkova understands. Right away, she comprehends how dreadful it would’ve been for me to end up like my mother, trapped in a love-hate relationship with a ruthless, violent man.
“You must be so glad the betrothal is over,” she says softly, and I nod, wrapping my arms around my stomach as it cramps painfully again.
She regards me with those warm brown eyes. “Have you spoken to him since your parents’ deaths?”